


The Proper Honours

by Gethsemane342



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Banter, Caring through jokes, Developing Friendships, F/F, Friendship/Love, Goodbyes, Grief/Mourning, Innuendo, Mocking, Possibly Unrequited Love, Team as Family, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:21:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22367089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gethsemane342/pseuds/Gethsemane342
Summary: After the funeral, amidst the celebrations, the companions gather one last time to reminisce about the awkward situations the Grey Warden got them into.
Relationships: Female Brosca/Leliana (Dragon Age), Leliana/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Zevran Aranai/Female Warden (background)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	The Proper Honours

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the same universe as my other fic, Thirty Years, Give or Take, but it's standalone. Hope you enjoy!

The Proper Honours

“I _thought_ I would find you both here,” Zevran says as he walks into the tavern. Oghren and Leliana simultaneously put their mugs down. It almost makes him laugh. “I will join,” he says. “A toast, yes?”

Oghren raises his mug and belches. Zevran’s honestly surprised he’s anywhere near sober.

“To sodding dusters who bugger off so they can play hero and save the world.”

Leliana pushes her mug across to Zevran. He clinks it to Oghren’s, takes a swig, then passes it back. Leliana barely reacts. When he glances at Oghren, the dwarf shrugs.

The door opens, and Sten and Dog walk in. Zevran waves. Sten silently sits next to Oghren. His expression is impassive, like always, but his hands are twitchy. Dog, meanwhile, puts his head on Leliana’s lap. She blinks as he whines. Under the table, her fingers thread through his fur, the same way Natia’s do.

Did.

Braska.

He waves to the barkeep. “More ale, my friend.” Then he looks around. “Are we expecting the pleasure of Wynne and our new king?”

Leliana’s lips thin at the mention of Alistair but he doesn’t know why. The surviving Warden has been busy with his new duties but they’ve all dropped in on him at least once. Not Leliana. She’s barely spoken to him.

“I don’t know why I didn’t think to try here first,” a gentle voice says, jolting him from his thoughts. He turns to see Wynne walk towards their table. There are shadows beneath her red-rimmed eyes, but she smiles. Her hand, he notices, shakes as she walks. A few people nearby are staring, but they were covertly looking before. They are the famed companions of the Grey Wardens.

Well. Of Natia. Alistair spoke truly when he said that she had touched everyone’s lives. For Natia, Zevran would have faced the Archdemon itself. For Alistair … he would have offered a decent discount.

“Come, sit,” Zevran says because nobody else seems keen to talk. He turns to the barkeep. “Make one a glass of red wine.”

Wynne raises an eyebrow. “You noticed?”

“I remember Natia finding a particularly lovely vintage and saying she thought you would appreciate. A woman of refined taste, I suppose.”

But the mention of Natia has killed what little mood Zevran might have built. The barkeep brings over the drinks, and they look at them pensively. Everyone is in funeral finery and feeling all the more uncomfortable for it.

“We should redo the toast,” Oghren mutters. Now that Zevran looks, _his_ eyes are red-rimmed too, though maybe that’s the drink. “For them that just got here.”

Sten grips the handle of his mug, knuckles white. “Who leads?”

They all trade looks, and that’s when Zevran notices that the barkeep _did_ bring an extra mug. He doesn’t comment on it though. Instead, he looks at Leliana. “My dear?”

The bard takes her mug. Her eyes are dull, and her movements, sluggish. She almost looks ill.

It was Zevran and Wynne who sat with her, that first night. There had been lots of cheering, but Leliana had sobbed. When Alistair had turned to her, she’d actually shrieked at him. Wynne, who had faced the Archdemon with Natia, Alistair and Leliana, had quietly explained what had happened. That a Grey Warden’s life was apparently needed to slay the Archdemon. That Alistair had offered his. And that Natia had refused because of course she had. For all her talk of not caring, Natia had loved them with a depth Zevran could only envy. So, he had helped Wynne take Leliana somewhere quiet. Wynne was the most compassionate of those remaining, so it was natural for her to help. But Zevran had helped because after he had slept with Isabela, Leliana and the Warden, Natia had suggested he was better for Leliana. She had started to ask him to be there for Leliana, if she died, but Zevran had laughed. Because Natia was unstoppable. She was never going to die.

Did she know, even then, that she would prove him wrong in this battle?

“To Natia Brosca,” Leliana says softly just as his eyes sting. “Beloved. Brave. A hero. The light of my life.”

They all drink. Zevran blinks the sting away.

Sten says, “A true warrior, worthy of respect.”

After a second, realising that _is_ Sten’s toast, they drink again.

Oghren says, “I’m not repeating myself. She’s still a sodding duster who just had to be a damn hero.”

Zevran snorts but they all drink anyway.

Wynne’s voice is unusually quiet as she says, “To Natia, who took us all in, in her own way, and made us her family. A true friend, who was everything a Grey Warden should be. We are honoured to have known her.”

There is a choking sound from Leliana. Oghren, after a second, clumsily pats her arm. She lets him but he looks so uncomfortable that Wynne puts an arm around the bard, stroking her shoulder sympathetically. She’d done it earlier too, when Alistair said all those pretty words and made such pretty promises, as though Natia were some kind of mythical hero. Zevran and Oghren had looked at each other, but stayed apart, faces carefully stoic even as-

Dog barks a few times, followed by a whine. Nobody knows what _that_ means but they drink, and receive a happy growl. Then Dog and Sten look at him. He coughs. “To Natia Brosca,” he says as brightly as he can, despite the tightness of his throat. “I told her not to get eaten unless it was really important … and I guess it was. A fine friend, a fine warrior, a fine _lover_ -” He glances at Leliana, to see if she’ll smile, but she doesn’t, and it’s suddenly painful because he and Natia could have been... “-and all sorts of other fine things,” he finishes. “I personally hope that Bhelen will make the giant statue of her that he promised. But if he does not, it is of no matter. _We_ will not forget her.”

Sten gives him an almost curious look as they all drink again. Dog yips and Zevran can see his tail wag. At least he approves. Maker, he’d _told_ Natia that Dog was a strange name for a dog. She’d just scowled and muttered that she had thought Dog _was_ his name when she’d rescued him, because she’d never seen a dog before.

He snorts as he remembers that. Everyone looks at him but he doesn’t know how to explain the joke.

“Are we doing toasting?”

Zevran turns. “Ah, our esteemed king. Will your Majesty be joining us?”

Alistair raises an eyebrow. He looks exhausted. “That was unusually polite for you.”

“You wound me. I am _always_ polite in the presence of royal bastards.”

Alistair chuckles, though it sounds forced. He starts to reach for a chair but hesitates when he sees Leliana glare at him.

“I want to give her a good send-off.” His voice is a little hoarse.

“You _killed_ her,” she hisses.

“Leliana, we were both there,” Wynne says, gently firm. “He offered his life. She ran off before we could stop her.”

But Zevran sees Alistair flinch, and knows there’s something more to it. He’s toying with whether to ask, when Alistair says, “You know, don’t you? What Morrigan offered.”

There is a slight bristling.

“Morrigan?” growls Oghren. “That heartless-”

“Yes, I know,” Leliana says. “I went to her that night and she told me. That she _asked_ you and you refused.”

“You went to Morrigan?” says Wynne.

“No,” Alistair says. “Natia came to me.”

Now, Oghren turns to Sten. “What in the ancestors’ names are they on about?”

“I do not know.”

Zevran looks between them. “Is this a … personal matter?”

Leliana’s eyes are cold. “Morrigan knew of a way to save their lives. Natia trusted her but it needed Alistair. And Alistair…”

“I might have agreed eventually,” Alistair says. “She backed off. I just … I don’t trust her, OK? I know Natia does. Did.” He grimaces. “Natia could see the good in people but I don’t … did Natia tell you _what_ Morrigan planned? What she wanted me to _do_?”

Leliana is quiet for a long time. Then she slumps. “Yes,” she says. “She trusted Morrigan. But she was not sure Morrigan could control … what would have happened. She thought Morrigan may have offered it because she did not want Natia to die.” She takes a breath. “Natia told me, if _she_ could have done the ritual, she would have. But. She couldn’t. She was not sure, anyway, that I would be comfortable with it, knowing what she did of my beliefs. And she did not want to pressure you when you were so clearly uncomfortable. Not after her sister. She thought you needed to make your own decisions and if she kept going, you would not have…”

“Wonderful. On top of everything else, she was some kind of monarch trainer.” He reaches down, grabs the last mug, sniffs it, then shrugs and takes a gulp. He looks at them, and to give him credit, his gaze is steadfast. “Morrigan wanted to preserve the soul of an Old God through a child,” he says. “She needed me to father the child. It would have saved Natia’s life, if I’d agreed.”

For a moment, Zevran is sure he’s misheard. He wants to laugh, it’s so outlandish, but it isn’t the time or place. Oghren, similarly, looks surprised and not on the verge of making a lewd comment.

Wynne says, “That is an awful thing to propose.”

Alistair and Leliana do not look at each other. Alistair says, “Natia didn’t think so. And I did. So, it’s my fault our friend died, and my fault Morrigan left.”

“The witch chose to leave,” Oghren says. “That’s on her.”

“I still let Natia die. I know that.”

Leliana sighs suddenly. “Even Natia was not sure Morrigan’s plan was good for Ferelden. And she _never_ wanted you to…” Finally, she looks at Alistair, and the grief on her face is awful to behold. “I loved her, Alistair,” she says. “We planned to travel the world together, seeking out adventure until she succumbed to the taint. She talked, sometimes, of all that she wanted to experience. She was so _bright_ and funny and sweet and… Honestly, I do not know what I would have said if she had asked me about the ritual but … I think, even for thirty years with her, I would have said yes.” She sucks in breath. “She held no grudge against you, Alistair. She understood.”

“I know.” Alistair coughs. “D’you want me to leave?”

Leliana looks down. Then her shoulders square. “We are here now, and she would want this. But afterwards…”

Zevran trades looks with the others. He isn’t sure how he feels. The whole thing sounds bizarre – using Alistair in some kind of sex ritual to save the soul of the thing they came to destroy? He _knows_ Natia trusted Morrigan, and he _knows_ Morrigan genuinely liked Natia – he saw them often enough in camp, chatting, sharing snide comments and warm greetings – but Natia trusted that dwarf, Leske, and look how _that_ ended. Morrigan saved their lives a dozen times over but it didn’t make her trustworthy. Not with something like this. And _she_ abandoned them while Alistair offered his life.

But.

“You did not kill her,” says Sten. “The Archdemon did.”

Oghren grunts assent. Wynne nods.

Zevran doesn’t. Because in another world, he and Natia could have been together. He’s never begrudged Leliana her love with the dwarf. He and Natia worked because he was her old home – rough, teasing, with no obligations: just pleasure and the unspoken bonds beneath. But Natia had hated Dust Town. _Leliana_ had shown her how compassionate, loving and heroic she was. Leliana had let her be better. There’s no doubt in his mind that _he_ would have dragged her down. Even when they all slept together, he could see how Natia brightened with her, how Leliana was free and wild but always, always, tied to Natia.

But even if they would never be together that way, to have thirty more years…

That damn stinging. He takes another gulp, then says, “Your toast?”

“Oh. Right. Yes. Hmm.” Alistair sits on the chair. “To Natia. A right pain in the ass, a secret do-gooder, and the rope that bound us all together. I hope she’s up … or down, I guess, since she’s a dwarf … there, getting into trouble, picking up strays and dragging them all over the place.”

Zevran and Oghren both laugh at that. Zevran says, “You did not mention that in your speech.”

“Yeah. They insisted on reading what I was going to say first.” He pulls a face. “Not that I knew what to say. It wasn’t enough.”

For a moment, nobody speaks. It wasn’t that the funeral was _bad_ but it was so _formal_.

“You did your best,” Wynne says kindly.

“May they write that on my tombstone. King Alistair. Royal bastard. Did his best.”

Zevran sniggers. After they’ve drunk again, they all slump comfortably. It’s strange. Most of them have travelled together for about a year, and he’d say they only sort of know each other. Natia, of course, knew them all. Oghren has only been with them for a couple of months, and she’d _still_ found the time to not only befriend him but find his former girlfriend for him.

He shakes his head as he remembers. Oghren says, “What you thinking, elf?”

“I was just recalling how Natia made us go to Lake Calenhad to find your … Felsi, was it not? _You_ were delighted, of course, but Wynne and Sten kept reminding her she had to call the Landsmeet.”

“And, of course, she said it would be quick and anyway, Lake Calenhad was so _close_.” Wynne looks at Leliana. “You encouraged her.”

Leliana smiles slightly, the first time he’s seen her smile since before the Archdemon. “She said it was to stop Oghren being distracted. She actually thought it was sweet.” For a moment, Zevran thinks she might cry again. “Sh-she used to ask what the point of my silly love stories was, but once, when we were lying together, she said she liked them. She’d never heard love stories before.”

“Aye, well, she had some excellent talk, that’s for sure,” Oghren says. “Got the info I needed from old Felsi so I could warm her up.”

“Unsurprising. She was always asking questions,” Sten muttered.

“Maker, do you remember Ignacio’s face when she kept asking about the damn chest when we were helping the Crows?” Alistair says. “Like she didn’t know how it worked.”

Only Leliana had been there, because Morrigan was gone now. But she makes a sound, halfway between a giggle and a sob. “She loved winding people up. Do you know, when I…” She blushes. “When I first invited her to my tent, she claimed she was going to write in her journal. I was so flustered, I did not even remember that she could barely read or write, let alone have a journal. Her smile when I realised...”

Alistair turns to Wynne. “Did she ever get better at writing?”

Wynne sighs fondly. “She found it boring. She did try but … I don’t think sitting still was our Warden’s thing.” She pauses. “Assassinations, on the other hand…”

“What can I say?” Zevran says. “I am a terrible influence.” He smirks. In truth, Natia had kept him away from helping the Crows. She’d claimed she didn’t want bad blood to ruin their chance of more income. But he had been with her when they first went to Ignacio. He’d seen how she’d stood in front of him protectively. “I blame the bard for her tendency to steal everything.”

“Me? She was a thief when I _met_ her. And you were not complaining when she gave you those presents.”

“Ah, my heart is easily bought, my dear Leliana,” Zevran says but she’s laughing, and if he were religious, he would thank the Maker for this conversation.

Alistair’s laughing as well, though like Leliana, it sounds on the verge of a sob. “She was a _terrible_ influence on us. Do you remember robbing that silversmith?”

Oghren chuckles. “Boy’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when she talked about the party. Girl had some imagination on her.”

Sten rolls his eyes. “She was not that explicit.”

“Oh, aye. That was me.”

“She had a penchant for it though,” Wynne says. “You told me when you escaped Fort Drakon…”

“Oh, yes.” Alistair grins boyishly as he looks at the rest of them. “We were in the cell in Fort Drakon, almost no clothes on, and as soon as she wakes up, she complains that she’s always in prisons and that we need to get out. Then she goes to the cell door, and basically tells the guard she wants to sleep with him. _Then_ she convinces him that _I_ like watching so he doesn’t need to worry about me being there. Gets his armour off, then knocks him out. It was hilarious.”

“And after all of her complaining about disguises, didn’t you both pretend to be guardsmen to get out?”

“Yes! Maker, she got really into it. Kept shouting _Ser, yes ser!_ and spouting made-up regulations. She even gave one of our squadmates advice on holding a sword.”

Sten sighs. “There is a time and place for levity.”

“Oh, Sten, you big softie,” Leliana says. “You liked her jokes really.”

“…Perhaps.”

They fall silent at that admission, and look into their mugs again. Zevran’s is nearly empty, but he can’t feel the alcohol yet. He raises it for a refill. He’s not even sure who’s paying. Natia was in charge of finances.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” a female voice says. “Am I interrupting?”

They all turn their heads to see a dwarven woman with that weird casteless tattoo. Rica Brosca. Her make-up is smudged slightly and her eyes are red.

When Zevran first met her, he hadn’t believed she was related to Natia. Natia had been, Zevran learned, unusually lean for a dwarf. Rica was broader, her face rounder, her nose wider, her hair lighter. He had often thought of Natia like a cat, with the way she crouched slightly as she walked. Rica was more … composed. But as he’d watched them together, he’d seen the similarities. The same eyes. The same laugh. The same mannerisms. The same steel in their soul.

He knows, from comments in Orzammar and an idle conversation with Leliana, that Rica Brosca raised her. That everything Natia had aspired to be, she’d aspired because Rica had thought her capable of it.

“Not at all,” Zevran says, because he seems to have become the group’s spokesperson. “Sit with us.”

Everyone shifts slightly to make space for her. She ends up next to Zevran. A dwarf bodyguard stands near the door.

“We were just talking about your sister,” Wynne says. Her arm is still around Leliana. “We were reminding ourselves of her sense of humour.”

“Oh, dear,” Rica says, and everyone but Leliana and Sten chuckles. “I like to say she must have got it from her father. She used to poke her tongue out at that.” She sighs and there’s a shudder in that breath. “I don’t know any of you very well but she loved you. I could tell.” She closes her eyes, and now her shoulders shake. “I, I’m sorry,” she says. “You’d think I’d… Ancestors. I know what she did … but if I could have kept her down there, she’d have been _safe_. Bhelen would have accepted her.” There’s an ominous sniff. “I’m sorry,” she says again. “I shouldn’t-”

“It’s fine,” Alistair says. “We understand.”

Rica paws at her eyes. “No. She, she wouldn’t want me to cry. She _hated_ seeing me cry. Like I hated seeing her cry.” She gulps, and looks at Alistair. “She didn’t want to leave Orzammar. She was worried about me and Leske. But when she came back, she … she was so _proud_. I was worried that Beraht would crush her, growing up. She … I’ll always think of her as a little girl wanting to go and play. But she was cold sometimes, as we got older. Angrier, more callous. She didn’t care about anyone other than me and Leske after a while. But then she came back and she was that little girl again. She was almost bursting with stories she wanted to tell me. She sat up for hours with me, telling them all. She had a purpose. She was being a hero, saving the surface _and_ Orzammar, and she loved it.” She looks around the table. “She told me stories about you all as well. Well. She didn’t know Oghren then.” She frowns. “Where’s that witch? Morrigan, wasn’t it?”

“Sore subject,” Oghren growls.

“Oh.”

“Is it true?” Leliana says suddenly. Everyone turns to her. “Will she be made Paragon?”

“The Assembly are considering it. I think they’ll do it. My Bhelen is pushing hard for it.” There is fondness in her voice. “She deserves it.”

Quietly, Leliana says, “She wanted it. She wanted to raise you up to her House and change things down there.” She doesn’t seem able to meet Rica’s eyes. “She told me we should make it one of our stops when we travelled.”

“Oh,” Rica says. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think-”

“It’s fine.”

Rica tries to reach across to Leliana but her arm is too short. It’s funny, Zevran thinks. Natia was the shortest of them all, except Dog (even then, it was a hard-fought contest), but he’d never thought of her as small.

“Know that you will always have a place with us in Orzammar,” Rica says, giving up on the arm. “Whenever you want to visit. We’ll have a spare room waiting. After all, little Endrin should get to know at least one of his aunties.”

Now, Leliana looks up, and Zevran has to look away from the grief and gratitude in her expression.

He remembers when they first met Rica Brosca. Natia had introduced them all with wonderful titles. Alistair, Senior Grey Warden of Ferelden (technically true, though they’d laughed later at Alistair’s cocked eyebrow at that). Morrigan, witch of the Kocari Wilds. Zevran, former member of the famous Antivan Crows. Wynne, Senior Enchanter of the Circle of Magi. Sten, an incredible Qunari warrior. Dog, her trained Mabari warhound. But when she’d gotten to Leliana, she’d faltered. Because most of Orzammar did not allow same-sex relationships. Only dusters engaged in it, and even then, only for pleasure. Nobody cared how a duster bred but they might attack you anyway.

Rica had clearly known her little sister because she’d smiled and said, “Introduce us properly later. I always like to meet new family members.”

To the surprise of _everyone_ there, Natia had turned bright red and then, suddenly, flung her arms around Rica in a hug that had probably knocked the wind from her.

“Leaving Endrin was one of her biggest regrets,” Leliana says, still quiet. “She … would be grateful if I could visit. But I know surfacers are not welcome in Orzammar.”

Rica doesn’t even seem surprised that Natia knew she was going to die. She says, “I don’t care. I’ve never seen her look at someone the way she looked at you. I teased her, asked if she wanted to marry you.” Zevran can hear the choke in her voice as she says, “She said, ‘Would you hate me if I stayed up there with her? Forever, I mean.’”

 _That_ sets Leliana off. She doesn’t even attempt to disguise the sob. Wynne now looks like she might be permanently attached to the bard. Sten looks away, apparently unable to deal with crying humans. Oghren, similarly, looks uncomfortable. Guilt crosses Alistair’s face.

Zevran doesn’t know why this is any kind of revelation. They were all there when Natia had _finally_ introduced Leliana as her lover to Rica. She’d looked flustered, and in true Natia ‘can’t express feelings properly’ fashion, had said, “This is Leliana. She’s my … my _everything_.”

Alistair had howled with laughter, while Zevran and Morrigan had complimented her on her smooth talking. Even Sten and Wynne had snorted, while Leliana had blushed, looking very pleased. Natia had glowered and attempted to banish them all from the room.

He smiles at the memory, and then thinks, why not? So, he says, “Do you remember her telling Rica you were her _everything_?”

Alistair chuckles. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so embarrassed and _proud_ at the same time. And I saw her after the, ah, Isabela incident.”

“We _all_ saw her after the Isabela incident,” Sten grunts.

“I didn’t. You had all the fun without me.”

“Ah, Oghren, my friend,” Zevran says, trying not to think of soft Natia had felt when- “I think we can all agree the experience was … _lesser_ without you.”

“You’re saying that because _you_ got lucky.”

Rica frowns. “What are you talking about?”

Wynne shakes her head at them. “Nothing. They are being immature.” Then an unwilling smile creeps onto her face. “She _was_ bad at expressing her feelings, wasn’t she?”

“You know, I was always curious about how she and Leliana got together,” Zevran says as brightly as he can. “I cannot imagine Natia looking anyone in the eye and saying she felt that way about them.”

Leliana smiles through her tears. “She didn’t. She looked at the ground the entire time.”

“Ah, that sounds familiar,” Alistair says. “The ground got a lot of attention when she found something she thought I might like. I think she was scared we might think she had _feelings_.”

“I used to tell her to put her chin back up,” Wynne says fondly. “Though I never did find out how she knew what the books were.”

“She asked me,” Leliana says.

“And me,” Alistair says. “Kind of. She’d pick it up and turn to me, and say, _looks interesting_.” He rubs the back of his head. “I never had the heart to tell her I knew she couldn’t read, so I’d agree and tell her I didn’t know she liked whatever it was about.”

“I did the same,” Leliana says. “She hated to admit to things she couldn’t do. It made her feel weak.”

Zevran plays with his empty mug. “She was a generous friend, was she not?”

Rica smiles as she looks around. “What is this?”

Zevran shrugs. “Your sister. If she found something she thought one of us liked, she gave it to us. I have a lot of shiny bars now.” He smiles as winningly as he can. “I am a Crow, you see.”

“The gloves,” Sten says.

Zevran looks at his beloved gloves. “Those were quite nice too.”

Rica sniffs. Someone has passed her a mug, and she drinks from it. “Oh, little sister,” she murmurs. “Maybe she didn’t lose her stone sense like I feared.”

“Aye.” Oghren belches as he drinks more ale. “Mind. Told me she just wanted a good drinking partner.”

Zevran laughs. “She was far crueller to me. She said she had no use for lumps of metal, so she was dumping them on me.”

Alistair smiles ruefully. “The statuettes looked weird, apparently. Just like me.” Zevran sniggers again. Alistair points at him. “I’ll have you know the resemblance was uncanny.”

Leliana fingers an amulet around her neck. “She started off saying she had no use for the Maker so I may as well have them.” She closes her eyes. “Eventually, she just said she thought I’d like them.”

“I wonder what she said to Morrigan,” says Zevran. “I cannot imagine sweet words of endearment passing between the two.”

“I always wondered what they talked about, in camp,” mutters Alistair. He sighs suddenly. “Maker. It’s been a week and I still can’t believe she’s gone.” His lips quiver. Zevran was surprised that he made it through his earlier speech without tearing up. “I keep expecting her to come through that door, sit down and tell us we’re going to do something stupid or audacious or morally questionable.”

“Morally questionable?” Zevran says, making himself smile again. “Surely you do not doubt the goodness of what we did?”

“We dumped bodies in a well,” Wynne reminds him.

“As a _favour_. For which we were paid. The best kind of favour.” He looks around. “Come. Tell me, what other weird things did she make you do?”

Alistair regards him for a few seconds, eyebrow raised. But then he launches into an amusing story about Natia attempting to play matchmaker in the Brescilian woods. It leads on to a discussion about other odd jobs they did on the way, and soon everyone is joining in. Rica tells them funny stories about Natia growing up. Someone calls for more ale and wine. Dog gets a bone and occasionally joins in with barks and yips. Zevran leans back and watches them. He asks the barkeep for food. Somehow, he thinks they’ll be there a while.

* * *

They’re there for _hours_. He thinks it might be the longest they’ve ever talked without Natia, even if the topic _is_ Natia. They talk not just of her quirks, her jokes, her tendency to play hero, but also of things that made them angry or sad. Her refusal to engage with her feelings. Her stubbornness. Her recklessness. Her dislike of criticism.

The way she’d shaken when they’d gone to Orzammar and the dwarves had treated her like a criminal. She’d gotten Leliana to pickpocket them in revenge, smiling a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Bullying the cowardly bartender into fighting for Redcliffe and not commenting on his death, just standing with fists clenched.

Facing Leske in Dust Town. Natia’s dead eyes as she’d killed her best friend. She had not spoken once of Leske since his death. Leliana said she’d refused to let her touch her all evening, until the bard had found her sitting on the end of the bed, sobbing soundlessly into her hands.

Trying, so _hard_ , to negotiate with the crazy hermit in the Brescilian forest before provoking him into attacking.

Her snipes at her mother. A broken vase soon after that she _swore_ wasn’t her even though nobody else had gone near it.

(And where was her mother now?)

The way she’d ignore social niceties and go straight to business, no time for jokes or questions, because her way was the only way.

Making Alistair the king, against his will, because when it came down to it, Natia could trust him more than Anora – even with an entire country – and with her, trust was everything.

And with all that, the things that touched them. Her evening conversations. Finding her wrestling with Dog. Facing Marjolaine, Goldanna, Aneirin, Flemeth. The excitement on her face when Rica said she had a son, and the pout she’d made when she wasn’t allowed to see him immediately (“It’s Rica’s _son_ ,” she’d said defensively. “My _nephew_.” A pause, as though tasting the word on her lips. “My nephew,” she’d said, quieter. “I just want to meet him.”). Her joyful reaction to rain, to wind, to sunny days and stars. The way she was normally so restrained, but with Leliana, all bets were off, often pausing to kiss or hug her, regardless of who could see.

Quietly, Alistair says, “When she made us stop before going onto the rooftop, just so she could tell you she loved you. I _knew_. She … wouldn’t look me in the eye.”

Leliana, who hasn’t cried for some time now, meets his gaze. “She told me that if she had the chance, she would not let you do it. She was expendable and you were not.” She maintains eye contact. “I was selfish. Part of me hoped she would change her mind.”

“I’ll try to be worthy,” he says quietly.

“You are a good man, Alistair,” she replies. “Be a good king.”

At that moment, the barkeep comes up to them. Zevran looks around. The room is empty apart from them and Rica’s bodyguard, and there is darkness outside the window. The barkeep himself looks a little regretful.

“I’m sorry, ladies, gentlemen, but I got to close up.” He hesitates. “Er. Your Majesty.”

Zevran sniggers at Alistair’s startled look.

“Of course,” says Wynne. She’s long since released Leliana, and looks a little worse for wear after a few glasses of wine. “We’ll leave now.” She puts her hand into a pocket of her robes and digs out some coin. “For the drinks and food.”

“Here, let me pay,” Alistair says. “I have the funds.”

“You are the king, Alistair,” Wynne says. “That gold should not go on our party. And this is from what we had left after … everything. It’s fitting.”

Alistair blushes but then smiles. “Oh, well. Good to know our looting _everything_ didn’t go to waste then.”

Leliana, Oghren and Zevran laugh at that.

“You know,” the barkeep says, “I liked hearing you all talk. Felt like you was giving her proper dues, you know. When they all come in, with their stories about the Hero like what I already heard, I’ll tell ‘em yeah, she was a hero but she wasn’t ten feet tall or nothing like that. She was this goofy dwarf who loved her mates and her girl, and wanted to do the right thing.” He’s smiling. “Almost feel like I know her now. Wish I could have met her in person.”

They all look at each other. It’s Rica who says, “Thank you. She’ll be sorely missed.”

“Aye, well, if you lot want to come back here, always welcome. Er. Majesty.”

“Oh, never mind that,” Alistair says. “It’s Alistair in here.”

This seems to be too familiar for the barkeep, who does an odd sort of bow and backs away. They all stand in silence and gather their things before filing into the street. It’s late now, but still warm. There are a few people nearby, some of whom stop and point.

They all look at each other again. For a moment, Zevran considers suggesting they continue the party elsewhere, but he knows it’s the end. Everyone else seems to feel it too, but nobody says anything.

Eventually, Rica says. “I’d better go to my lodgings. Bhelen’s men will want to leave early tomorrow with the … the body.” Oghren places a clumsy hand on her shoulder. She shifts slightly, then lets him offer this comfort. “Thank you for this,” she says to them. “It was good to hear about her. I have so many new tales to tell little Endrin of his aunt now.” She sniffs and wipes a hand across her eyes. “I worried about her, coming up here. I … I still wish she’d never come, that she was down in Orzammar with Bhelen, Endrin and I but … I can see that she was happy. So, thank you. Thank you for taking such good care of her.”

The bored dwarven bodyguard appears. Rica nods goodbye to them, pausing to hug Leliana and whisper something to her, and then leaves with him.

 _And then there were the sidekicks_ , Zevran thinks, though of course Morrigan is not there. They’ve mostly managed to avoid mentioning her, though he suspects he’s not the only who sort of misses her. He thinks she would have had some amusing comments to make about Natia.

“Well,” Alistair says into the silence. “I suppose I’d better go back. Kingly duties to attend, I’m sure. They might have found a broken bedpost in my room. Can’t have that.”

Zevran smiles weakly. He wonders if this is how it ends.

Alistair seems to be thinking that too, because he says, “And the rest of you? What do you plan to do now?”

“Sleep,” says Sten.

Alistair sighs. Zevran spots Sten’s lips quirk. Perhaps the Qunari has softened because he says, “I will start the return to Par Vollen tomorrow. I must make my report.” He looks around them, his eyes settling on Dog. “Dog will come with me.”

Alistair looks at the warhound. “That true, boy?”

Dog barks excitedly. Alistair sighs again, and strokes the dog’s head. “She’ll be glad to know he’s in good hands.” He hesitates and looks at Leliana. “Is that-”

She nods. “Sten asked me. I love him but he will be happier with Sten.”

Dog comes over to her and whines. She strokes him, and even lets him lick her face. When she stands, he leans into her, and her hand threads through fur again.

Alistair looks at the rest of them. There’s something resigned in his face as he says, “You’re all leaving, aren’t you?”

Oghren shrugs. “Not sure yet. Can’t go back to Orzammar. I’m a surfacer now. But I might go check on old Felsi. See if she fancies a ride or two, if you know what I mean.” He chuckles. “Could hang around a bit first though. You need old Oghren’s help, boy? Got some _lady troubles_?”

“Hmm… On second thoughts…” Alistair smiles. “No. Oh, Maker. I’ll have to marry someone, won’t I? And make an heir.”

“Yes, what a hardship that will be, your Majesty,” Zevran says. “All those _beautiful_ women throwing themselves at you. Whatever will you do?”

Alistair laughs. “Believe it or not, I might actually miss you,” he says. “For a backstabbing murderer, you’re surprisingly OK.”

“I hear that a lot in my line of work,” Zevran says. He knows Alistair wants him to say what his plans are but he can’t. Not yet. So, he looks at Wynne.

Wynne says, “I suppose I had better return to the Circle for a bit. I’m sure Irving will want my help. After that…” She looks at the sky almost wistfully. “Perhaps I will travel. These past few months have shown me that there is much I would like to see before these old bones give up.”

“Ah, my dear Wynne, you and your wonderful bosom will outlive us all.”

She sighs. “He _almost_ made it this far without annoying me,” she says and Zevran laughs. To his surprise, she walks up to him and kisses his cheek. “That’s all you will get from me. I would say it’s been a pleasure…”

He surprises himself when he clasps her shoulder, then steps back respectfully. They all know Wynne’s secret, just from overhearing it in camp. The thought that Wynne might die soon causes a strange pang in his chest. But he smiles and says, “You will come back before you go, yes?”

Now she smiles the warm smile she usually reserves for Natia, Alistair and Leliana. “Of course.”

That leaves him and Leliana. It occurs to him that _Natia_ might not have told Leliana what she wished of him.

Leliana says, “I … I may return to the Chantry, for now. She did not believe in the Maker but … there was a peace there. I do not think she would begrudge me that. After that … she wanted to travel and I would like to see the world.” She looks at Zevran and a smile appears in her eyes. “She asked you, didn’t she? To swap with her.”

Zevran can’t bring himself to joke about this. “Yes,” he says. “But … I said no. I cannot take you from her.” He steels himself because asking _here_ is inappropriate but he _promised_. Maybe he promised _mentally_ but it counts. “If you would like some company on your journey, I would be happy to accompany you.”

He can _feel_ everyone’s raised eyebrows at that. Leliana considers him for some time. “That is kind of you. But I do not want to keep you against your will. And … I think, for much of this, I will be alone. She would want you to be free.”

“Perhaps,” he says lightly, “when you are done in the Chantry, you will send word to Antiva, and we can meet again. We will drink together. Reminisce about the past. I will show you the _dozens_ of beautiful men and women I will have amassed by then and you can be appropriately jealous of their good fortune.” He smiles, to show he’s joking. “We can discuss then.”

“I would like that,” Leliana says.

“Hey, can the rest of us join?” Alistair says.

“…You would like to see us again?” Sten says.

Alistair shrugs. “I’m not saying we’re best friends but if I think back on the past year, I can’t think of another group I’d rather have done this with. Well. Other than all of the other Grey Wardens. And who’s going to destroy my ego now?”

Sten considers. “If I can return, I will.”

Oghren shrugs. “Sure, I’ll come back for you. You’ll be able to afford the good stuff.”

“As I say,” Wynne says. “I will be there.”

“Good. It’s settled then. If that’s OK with you two.”

Zevran shrugs. “It is fine with me. _Especially_ if you would like to hand out titles to old companions. A castle would suit me well.”

Leliana hesitates. “I … if we are all together, then yes.”

Alistair winces, and Zevran realises that for all that tonight was, there are some wounds it cannot heal.

They all look at each other then. They’re all heading in the same direction, so Alistair starts to walk and the rest of them follow. It’s oddly silent though. What else do they have to say?

“When we meet again,” Sten says suddenly, “we must remember her.” They all look at him. At least he’s decided he _will_ see them again. Seeing their looks, Sten shrugs. “These formalities, they did her no honour. It was not fitting.”

“Hey!” says Alistair. “I thought building a giant statue, having a city-wide day of mourning, honouring her sister, and gifting land to the Grey Wardens was pretty good.”

Sten grunts. “It was too grand,” he says. “She was our arishok. Our kadan.”

“So, what _should_ we have done?”

“Tonight was better,” Sten says, as though Alistair has not spoken. “Tonight, we honoured her by remembering her as she was. We should continue to do so.”

Alistair still looks confused. But Zevran gets it. “What our giant friend means,” he says, throat tightening, “is that Natia never wanted to be a hero. Not that I think she would complain about statues and lands, of course. But … she would be lost in all that.”

“I know,” Alistair says, slightly defensively. Strangely, he and Oghren probably knew the least of Natia. “But I can’t tell everyone to start telling jokes about her. Not very royal, I imagine.”

“Well, no,” Zevran admits. “But. Perhaps, when we go our separate ways, we tell stories of her. We do silly good deeds, like she used to, and when we travel the world, we intervene in things that do not concern us. Perhaps, despite everything, we stay in touch.” He hesitates. “Perhaps,” he says, “one of us seeks Morrigan out, to give her a chance to be one of us again. Perhaps.”

Alistair looks at him. “You’ve become very brotherly, all of a sudden.”

He shrugs his easy-going shrug. “As you say. Our dear Warden touched us all. Some of us in a more … physical manner than others.” He smirks. Alistair and Wynne roll their eyes while Oghren snickers. “So, we can all at least keep her alive, a little bit longer.” He hesitates and can’t quite meet their eyes as he says, as nonchalantly as possible, “We were her family. She would want us to tease her and complain about her, and talk about how annoying she was. It is what she liked about us, yes?”

He can see them all look at each other. Then Sten says, “She made a wise choice when she saved your life, elf.”

It’s probably the first nice thing Sten’s ever said to him. But he doesn’t get a chance to respond, because Oghren says, “Aye, well, I’m sure we can do all that. Not sure about the witch but if I pass her, I’ll tell her she might be back in the club.”

Dog barks approvingly. Alistair looks uncomfortable, but Wynne says, “I’ll do the same. I’m sure we all have different parts of her we can live up to. I may take the less criminal route.”

“How boring,” Zevran says, but he laughs. Then he looks up. “Aha. The palace. I guess we do not sneak in, even if drunk?”

“No,” Alistair says quietly. “We don’t.”

They all look at each other, and there is an awkward silence as they realise _this_ is the end. Months of adventures and travelling together, and they’re all splitting apart, with just the promise of Natia’s memory to tie them together. And for all their pretty promises tonight, Zevran knows that they’ll meet perhaps one or two times more and then live their lives apart. The companions are no more.

There is some awkward shuffling then as they all silently debate whether to hug or shake hands or _something_. They kind of compromise, with Wynne hugging everyone other than Oghren; Sten just nodding when he can get away with it; Oghren _trying_ to hug Leliana and Wynne but letting himself get pushed away with a wink and a _had to try_ ; and Zevran and Alistair doing a mixture of handshakes and friendly backslaps. Dog, of course, wins hugs from everyone. Then they peel off. Sten first, Dog at his heels. Dog glances back; Sten does not. Oghren stumbles after him, mumbling about the world spinning and not being drunk enough for this. Then Alistair, after a final wave, walks away. Wynne looks like she wants to say something more but doesn’t. She, too, leaves without looking back.

Zevran and Leliana look at each other. Quietly, Leliana says, “Thank you, Zevran. She … she would love it.”

He smiles, despite the sting in his eyes and the lump in his throat. “Sten suggested it. And it is what we would have done anyway, I think. How can one stay silent about the year they spent with the hero of Ferelden? Just think of the men and women who will be falling over themselves to share my bed now.”

Leliana sort of laughs. “You’re insatiable.”

“Of course.” He grins, despite the hollow feeling in his chest.

She just looks at him. “You know,” she says softly, “Natia loved you very much.”

He can’t look at her. His voice is thick as he says, “I know.” His eyes sting and he squeezes them shut, but it’s not enough. “I miss her.”

“I know, Zevran. I do too. Very much.” There’s a hitch in her breath. “We will keep her alive, Zevran. Like you promised.”

“We will,” he says. “And when we meet her, on the other side, we will all duck. Because she will be scowling about everything we said, even if it is true. You know this, yes?”

“I know.” She smiles. “I would have it no other way.”

He puts an arm around her as they walk into the palace. “Nor would I,” he says, smiling through his tears. “Nor would I.”

**_ Fin _ **


End file.
